Corners
by hyacinthian
Summary: He had always loved corners. Until he had been backed into one. [GSR]


Title: Corners

Author: ScarlettMithruiel

Classification: A

Rating: PG-13?

Disclaimer: It doesn't belong to me.

Summary: He had always loved corners. Until he had been backed into one. GSR

Author's Note: I hope it's all right. Please review. Tell me what you think.

* * *

He sits in a corner, shrouded in darkness. He had always loved corners. They provided such solace for him. Corners hid him, in half-light and half-shadow, and for a second, it seemed as if no one could see him. He ceased to exist for that fraction of a second. It didn't matter what they thought of him. What mattered was that he was past their realm of vision…and he could forget them, just as they did him.

He remembers the sequence of events from a detached point of view. It was almost as if he wasn't there. He was never subject to the day's events. He had merely been a spectator. He remembers the flaring emotions. He had never been an emotionally adept person, but he felt the rage. And if _he _had been able to feel the rage…he shivered involuntarily at the thought.

He had always been entranced by her. She seemed to glow. She was so…human. So flawed. But she longed for perfection. He had always loved that facet of her. Knowing that society had expected less of her, she longed for strength and invincibility even more. It was quixotic and realistic of her at the same time. And she had always been reachable, attainable. She _had _been.

She had met him at a seminar. The story had been regaled too many times for his liking. He had apparently charmed her and swept her off her feet. He was practically her utopian lover, and he…wasn't. He had been so stupid, and so emerged in his work to realize that she had those feelings. Or that he even had feelings like that for her.

And then, one day, he had been faced with his thoughts. She walked in, like any other day, and as he began to read off assignments, he caught it. It had caught the light and, like a true diamond, it had sparkled and glittered appealingly. It had appealed enough to attract his vision. And, with a hard swallow, he realized that, although it attracted his vision, it pained his soul.

He had always wanted to be the one to slide the ring on her finger. To kiss her after the deed was done. He wanted to be the one that was bound to her through the law. But he had always held himself back. He had always been a self-deprecating man. And his assumption was that she could do better than him. What would happen if she were with him? He'd ruin her reputation. They'd say he was in search of younger blood, that he didn't truly love her, that she was a trophy wife. And he didn't want to do that to her.

Yes, he remembered. He had been there, at her wedding, with a slight smile on his face. It had been pained, but she had looked so beautiful. An angel swathed in white. She embodied happiness, and who was he to take that from her? At the reception, he had danced with her. It was supposed to be a dance between friends, but upon touch, it became much more intimate.

He had loved the feeling of her, gliding in his arms. Her head had been tucked under his chin, and the scent of _her _just wafted up and nestled. He sighed, content. It was only when the song ended that he was jerked back to reality. He had caught the look of sadness that flashed through her eyes. _You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late. _Yes, he realized it. Her words had been true.

He remembered the night he had found her. He had seen her, and seized her, as if she were his. He pressed her up against him, feeling every inch of her against him. "Tell me I'm not too late," he whispered, desperately, kissing her deeply. She had initially resisted, before succumbing to him.

He remembered every synapsal explosion, feeling shocks as her fingertips ran down his arms and his back. His fingers had danced across her body, and he hadn't been gentle. He hadn't been slow. He hadn't been everything he wanted to be. He had _needed _her that night. And his body was too tightly tied to his mind. He had kissed her once more, and she had practically melted in his arms with a soft cry.

He remembered how she had sat up, the sheets barely covering her pale flesh, running a shaky hand through her tousled hair. "We can't do this," she had whispered. "We can't do this again." But they had. They had repeated that night many times. And every morning, she had been beside herself with guilt. Guilt for doing this to him.

How odd it was. He loved her, but his life was restricted because of a little band on her left ring finger. A little gold band, with a diamond, should prevent him from doing this, society cited. And yet, it had been too tempting.

One night, he had stumbled upon them. Rage had burned in his eyes. And betrayal. _Et tu, Sara? _He was roughly spoken to and practically shoved out the door. He had set his jaw, clenched his fists, and tried, with every cell of civility in him, to resist punching him. "Get the _fuck _out," he had spat.

And now, they were leaving. _She _was leaving. He sighed, and he placed his head in his hands. He loved her, and she loved him. And she was leaving. Simple as that. And with that pessimistic thought, Gil Grissom rested his head in his hands. Sara was leaving. And she was taking her husband with her. And leaving him behind.


End file.
